Kings Heart
by dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: Sequel to Scars of Dragonfire. In the wake of the Battle of Five Armies, Thranduil thinks...and grieves. And finds an unexpected solace.


**King's Heart**

**Summary: **After the Battle of Five Armies, Thranduil watches, and grieves...and thinks. Melding of book and movie universes. Sequel to Scars of Dragonfire.

In the wake of the battle for Erebor, Thranduil mourned.

He mourned the dead. Fully a third and more of his company had perished, and he felt the loss of every life keenly. The Great Stag he had ridden had been a long-time companion of his, and walking felt like a knife to his heart, with the feeling of loss so sharp it could cut his soul. And that was the least of it. He was the woodland king, lord of the Greenwood. Every elven life was his to protect as well as command, and every fallen warrior was a new testament to failure. No matter that Mithrandir tried to comfort him with the words that these fallen had prevented immeasurably more of his kith and kin from dying. The death weighed on him, even as it had burned his mind in the battle.

He mourned his broken relationship with his son. He had brought it upon himself, he knew, in seeking to fracture the relationship between his son and Tauriel, in making his son choose. He would have chosen much the same as Legolas, once upon a time. It did not matter that he thought his son's love for Tauriel a weak, shadowed thing, less love than fascination. Legolas thought it love, and that was all that mattered. But he had done what he could, to send his son somewhere where he would be watched over, but also allowed to grow and hone his skills, and make a name outside the shadow that being a king's son cast. Too, Legolas had acknowledged the words of comfort and love he had spoken, his offering and his farewell blessing. Time would mend things there, he thought. It did not make the breach hurt less, nor lessen the dull shock of anger, that Legolas had turned from him, but it gave him hope that of all the wounds he would carry from the field, this one might be mended.

He mourned for Tauriel. In the heat of battle he had derided her relationship with the dwarf prince. But he should have known, and knew afterward, that she would not have disobeyed him and held him at arrow-point for anything less than the deepest calling of her heart. But the dwarf had not survived, and she now mourned. He recognized her mourning, he who had once stood over the body of his beloved and grieved in a similar fashion. He would have taken her pain from her, if he could, but that was something not even the Valar could truly heal. All he could do was promise her that they would honor the dwarven prince, as they honored their own dead. And rescind the words he had spoken on the battlefield, acknowledge what she had shared with the young dwarf.

Her words and his echoed in his ears every night. _'Why does it hurt so much?'_

_ 'Because it was real.'_

Thorin Oakenshield had not survived the battle either. He had not thought to mourn that fact, but he found he did. They might have been adversaries, but Thorin had earned his respect when he had overcome the dragon-sickness, the gold sickness, and come out to fight with his people. He had seen how deeply the gold fever had gripped Thorin, during their disastrous attempt at negotiation, and to have recovered from that, or beaten it back, took no small strength of will. He had fought well. Too, he had realized that he did admire, and understand, the fierce love for home and hearth and people that had driven Thorin to attempt to take Erebor in the first place. He had felt such, to a lesser degree, when evil began to invade the Greenwood. Had he been driven from the Woodland Realm, he might have been much like Thorin. Not that he feared such an event, but in the numbness that followed the battle, he could see the truth of that.

Almost unconsciously, his hand went to trace his wounded cheek, where he had replaced spells with dragon-fire salve, given to him by the dwarven king in the last hours before battle. It had worked better than he had hoped.

In the days that followed the battle, he gathered with Bard, Dain and Gandalf to discuss the disposition of the treasure (Dain chose to honor the word his kinsman had given, and to trade the arkenstone for the promised treasure). They discussed too, how Dain would rule the mountain with his people and Thorin's, and how the relationships between their three people would go. As a pledge of good faith, Dain returned to him the starlight gems he had so deeply desired, the heirlooms of his people. To have them returned should have been a great joy to him, but he counted the cost in the graves of the dead, and wished they remained still in the mountain halls.

When they did not meet in counsel, he and the other lords, and the wizard, walked among the people. They buried their dead, tended to their wounded, and cared for the living. They eased what grief they might. For his part, he found it nearly unbearable. Too often he stopped and turned aside, unable to walk any more among the fallen, chest burning with anguish that he had not known for an age. Not since the fall of Angmar had he seen so many dead, nor felt such terrible, wrenching grief at the lives lost.

He wished he could weep, but tears were beyond him. The necessities of a king's dignity had long prevented tears, as had the armoring of his heart. His throat tightened until he could not talk, and his heart ached as if it were being carved out of him, inch by inch, until he could not breathe with the pain of it, but he could not weep. That in and of itself was a torment nearly as great as the dragon-fire that had scorched him so many long years ago. It drove him, restless and tortured, into the night, to stare at the stars and wander aimlessly, seeking any mercy or distraction he could find.

And so it was he came upon the hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, in the sixth night of his wandering. The small fellow sat upon a rough rock, on one of the look-outs. He heard the hobbit before he saw him and stopped in the shadows, unwilling to disturb him.

Bilbo was weeping, tears falling silently from his eyes as he looked over the lands, towards the plains of battle. The only sound he made was the gasping, hitching sobs that had alerted Thranduil to his presence to begin with, and had he less sharp ears, he would have missed them.

He watched the hobbit weep. He knew Bilbo wept for his fallen companions, for Fili and Kili and Thorin. Had he not braved leaving the mountain and coming alone into their camp, to barter the Arkenstone for his friends lives? And done so knowing he would face Thorin's wrath when his actions were revealed? He had said once that he would save those whom he could. For all his fierce strength and cunning, the impression Thranduil had received was that of a gentle soul, more suited to gardening and cooking than to battle and war.

He could not approach the hobbit, and would not have wished to disturb him if he could have. But he stood vigil. In the starlight overhead, he prayed to the Valar that the hobbit's tears might stand for his own as well. And over the long hours of grieving loneliness, as he stood unnoticed in the shadows, his heart lightened, as though in sharing Bilbo's grief, he had somehow managed to alleviate his own suffering.

He left in the dawn, as soon as he heard the soft sounds of grief cease, and saw the hobbit wipe his eyes and take a deeper breath of the morning air. It was not his place to intrude on Bilbo's solitude, and he wanted no more than the precious gift he had been given, of this night of mourning.

He walked that day among the wounded, and saw Bilbo later doing the same, offering hot food and drink to all, talking and tending. And he saw that where the hobbit walked, expressions grew a little lighter, pain eased. It was such simple things he offered, bread and stew and cloths and a word here or there, but even the wizard and Bard smiled a little when they saw that small, slight form approach.

Even Dain welcomed Bilbo's presence warmly. The dwarves grieved deeply for their fallen, and none more than their king and his kin. Thorin's company grieved deeper than most, but even they sang and smiled through their tears when the hobbit came to them.

He knew that Bilbo had come to Thorin in his last hour, and wondered if the hobbit had eased Oakenshield's passing as much as he eased his kinsman's tears.

He wished that Bilbo would have reason to come to him as well. He knew well why the hobbit did not, as nothing in their meetings had given either friendship, nor even any good impression, save admiration for the hobbit's audacity on his part. But he wished now that they might have been friends. That he might have shared whatever peace it was that Bilbo seemed to spread. But he was too proud to seek it, or seek the answers to it from another.

He was not, however, too proud to offer wizard, hobbit and shape-shifter an escort to the borders of his woodland realm when he heard they would be returning that way after Thorin's burial. He was glad when they accepted.

They laid Thorin to rest deep within the mountain. And as they carried him to his rest, not only Dwarves, but Men and Elves formed his honor guard. He himself laid the sword Orchist across Thorin's tomb in tribute. Dain left the Arkenstone.

Afterward, he met the hobbit and the wizard beyond the ruins of Dale, and they rode away together. Bilbo had consented to take one or two small chests of treasure, after much urging, and so they moved at a pace a pony could keep. Perhaps once, he might have chafed at the slowness of it, but the pace was good for the wounded and those who carried them. And in any case, he had been forced to mount a horse. It had been many long years since he had ridden one, and he was content not to have to ride any harder.

Bilbo kept company most with Gandalf and with Beorn, the shape-shifter. By day Thranduil rode with his own people, as he was meant to. When night fell, however, he would join them at the campfire. And so he learned that Bilbo was an excellent cook, something Gandalf assured him was common among hobbits, and a kindly soul. For all the tension in their previous interactions, and the hobbit's initial wariness of him, still Bilbo spoke to him politely, filled his bowl as he filled Gandalf's.

It was refreshing that after the second night, Bilbo ceased to treat him as a king. To have one person who did not charge him with his safety, or the safety of others, to be treated as a common figure, was a change. And in the midst of his grief for the warriors he had failed, oddly soothing.

He did not say that. He could not say that. But he did tell the hobbit, the first time Bilbo started to stammer an apology for his informality (two of his couriers had heard the hobbit and were staring at him with scandalized eyes), that he did not mind. After that, their conversations were easier, and if they were not friends, they were at least somewhat comfortable companions. And in that, Thranduil found a comfort of a sort. He had no one to turn to, to ease the grief that woke him nightly, but he thought perhaps Bilbo understood that, in some strange way. Or at least sensed his turmoil, and was willing to ease it with little things.

The last night together, they camped on the edges of the Greenwood, just inside the forest. From there, Bilbo and Gandalf would travel the border with Beorn, to return to his house for a small while before venturing over the mountains. He had invited them to stay within his halls, and been politely refused. Once, it would have offended him. But now...the Greenwood would be long in healing, and would not truly be safe for outsiders until it was, not even on the elven-path. So he only offered his regrets, and wished Gandalf a safe journey. Then went to seek the hobbit, who had left after a very terse 'I regret, but I can't. Must be going home.'

He found Bilbo sitting by the river, on the rocks, staring over the water with something clenched in his hand. He approached, waited until the hobbit looked up, and inclined his head toward the closed fist. "If I may ask, what is that?"

"What is...oh, this. Nothing really." Bilbo flashed him a smile that held no joy, then slowly opened his hand.

It was an acorn. He stared at it.

Bilbo let him stare a moment, then spoke softly. "I picked it up. At Beorn's house, when we were traveling to the Mountain. His trees grow so well, so big...I wanted to take one home, plant it in my garden, watch it grow. Something to help me remember everything that happened."

Something warm, strong like sunlight, seemed to touch his heart. "You could ask for any treasure of the mountain, any gift you wish, and this is what you would choose?"

"Yes. Yes it is. I'm a hobbit. We grow things. Plant gardens, tend orchards. Brew beer and smoke pipes. Tend the earth. That's what we do. Sit. Sing. Tell stories at the hearth. That sort of thing. I wanted to grow this as my souvenir."

He stood in silence, and watched as a small, sad smile creased the corner of Bilbo's mouth for a moment. "You know...Thorin...he...he asked me the same thing once. After he began to suffer the dragon sickness, before you and Bard came to the gate. I was sitting, thinking about home, holding this, and he...he came up to me. He wanted to know what I had. He was angry, thought I might be stealing something. Thought I might be stealing the Arkenstone." There was irony there, in the fact that Bilbo had in fact taken the Arkenstone, but he was given no time to dwell on it as the hobbit continued speaking. "And I...I showed him this, told him where I'd picked it up, what I was planning...and he smiled. He laughed even. He looked...he looked like Thorin, like the Thorin I knew, before we came to the Mountain. Like he did when Eagles rescued us the first time."

He watched the hobbit swallow hard, and then Bilbo looked up at him, his eyes brilliant with tears. "I think that...that was why trusted me, until the end. But that...that day, talking about this...this acorn, that was the last time I really saw Thorin smile, or laugh. The only time, after we left Laketown, that he seemed like himself at all."

An acorn and a hobbit, whose truest love was green and growing things. Once he would have called it a paltry, useless shield against dragon-sickness. Not now. Now he stared at it, at the small brown acorn lying in Bilbo's palm, and felt something begin to thaw in his heart, in his chest, where his grief had frozen into a painful, agonizing knot.

He was terrified to break this moment, and could not stop himself, as he reached out his hands, to hover above the hobbit's. Almost he could not bring himself to ask what he wanted. But he saw the puzzled yet compassionate look in the brown eyes, and the words escaped him without any conscious thought on his part. "May I...?"

"What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course. If you like. It's not much, I suppose. Just an acorn from an oak." Bilbo looked flustered. "Here."

This hobbit...he had laid the Arkenstone on a table wrapped in old cloth, with the same air that Thranduil's man had handed out bread and lettuce to the men of Laketown. Yet he tipped the acorn into Thranduil's palm as if it were the finest of jewels. And it was received as such.

He felt it. The warmth of Bilbo's hand. He had been king of the Greenwood, of the woodland realm, for centuries. Years almost beyond number. He knew the feel of growing earth, the difference between sleep, dormancy, and death in the trees of the wood. He knew how to tell a lovingly tended tree, a well-cared for and looked after field, from a neglected one. He knew the feel of those things which had received all they needed to thrive, including the love of their care-takers. It was part of the wood magic, the legacy of his power.

To his wood magic, the acorn in his hand burned warm as a hearth-fire on a winter night. Dormant it might be, but it practically glowed. He thought of the miles between the mountain and the greenwood, and the miles yet to go to the fields of Beorn, which he knew were a good several days beyond his borders. He thought of the foresight, the dedication, it must have taken to bring such a small and relatively fragile thing as an acorn through all those miles. Through the wild barrel ride in the river, the long final journey to the mountain, the facing of the dragon. He thought of what it must have taken, the care it must have required, to bring such a small thing through dragon-fire and battle unharmed.

The warmth of it, as strong as the cherished trees of his kingdom, or the bright mallorns of Lothlorien, washed over him, and it took all his strength not to shudder with the force of it. He closed his eyes, feeling truly warm for the first time since the battle shock had descended upon him, when he had beheld the dead in the ruins of Dale and felt the blood upon his face, and felt the world fall away from under him.

He opened his eyes, and found Bilbo staring at him in barely veiled concern. He looked at his hands, cupping the acorn, and wondered what the hobbit saw. What he looked like, the elven king in his armor, holding an acorn with the same reverence he had cradled the gems of his forefathers. Elven king who held a hope of life in hands that a fortnight ago had reaped a whirlwind of death.

He returned the acorn gently into Bilbo's hands. "Have you an acorn from my woods as well?"

Bilbo shook his head, the ghost of a sheepish smile on his face. "No. no. Really didn't have the time. The dwarves, you know. And it was hard enough not getting caught as it was."

"Indeed." He looked into the woods. There was a border guard station nearby, on this edge of his kingdom. And all his people, even warriors, cherished the woods. He inclined his head. "Come."

He led the hobbit to the border station. The guards came forward, and he waved them away. "Go to the camp. Get food and water there, and wait for my return." Both guards looked uneasy, but obeyed him.

He stretched his hand over the area. "Is there a tree here that you would choose?"

Bilbo looked around, then began to stroll around the perimeter of the guard station. He watched the hobbit look at various trees, judging greenery, health. His touch was gentle and careful, his look one of an expert, and one who loved growing things.

Among his own, a person such as this would have been respected as a master gardener, a master grower. Possibly even a tree tender, one who watched over the trees that formed the perimeter of the palace, in the heart of the greenwood. It was a wonder, that such a careful figure should be only average, or less than average, among his own people.

Finally, after a full circuit of the area, Bilbo pointed. "That one. If I were going to pick...that one. Looks hardy, strong, like it could handle a journey. Not too rooted either."

The tree Bilbo had indicated was a sapling, less than 25 years old. But it was old enough to have grown well. He followed the tracings of energy, of water and wood, to the old, tall tree from whence the hobbit's chosen tree had sprung. He walked to it, then knelt at the base and reached into the soil and underbrush.

The nuts had long since fallen, waiting dormant for spring. Many of them were no longer viable. He let his magic extend, eyes closed, fingers brushing the loam, seeking the green spark of life, waiting to burst forth. He did not care if the illusion magic that hid his scars flickered, if his people came and saw him thus, kneeling in the dirt with no concern whatsoever for his garments. The need to connect to the forest, to do what he was doing, focused his attention, until he could care for nothing else.

His fingers touched a small, bright spark of green, caressed a hard shell, then curled gently around it. He lifted the nut from the forest floor, cradled in his palms. A breath sent his magic washing over it in a gentle cloud, breathing life, strength and well-being into it. Connected to the greenwood, he let his magic whisper to the forest of hobbits, and their care for growing things, for all things that lived.

The power of the woodland realm had ever been responsive to him, and now it wrapped him in a field of shining green, invisible save to those who had power, but warm as the sun in summer. He closed his eyes, not fighting the tremor that shook him, as the last icy grip of agony and numbing disbelief gave way to pain, and true grieving. A single tear trembled down his cheek and fell, to splash against his hands and the seed cupped within them.

He heard Bilbo call his name, concern in his quiet tones, and forced himself back to awareness. The magic receded to a bearable level, though it remained, warm and comforting, the feel of life and healing. He rose from his crouch, turned back to the hobbit, and crossed the glen to his side. "Hold out your hands."

Bilbo blinked at him, but did as he was told. Gently, he laid the nut in the hobbit's hands, as gently as Bilbo had given him the acorn. "A seed, from the Greenwood. To plant in your garden."

It was almost a physical ache, to let go, to give away this small part of his forest, watered by his tears. And yet, he felt Bilbo's hand hold it, warm and solid. Watched the hobbit run his fingers over the shell, as he had done, as if he too could feel the life and hope within. Watched Bilbo pull out a cloth and carefully, gently, wrap the greenwood seed and the acorn together, protected from crushing each other by layers of cloth, then stow it gently in his high coat pocket.

Then Bilbo looked up at him. "Thank you. I've seen how well you tend your trees, and I've heard about elves, and growing things. I...I'm honored, and I promise, I will take good care of this. I'll plant it as soon as I get home."

"Indeed. The trees of the Greenwood grow tall and wide. Be cautious where you plant it, that it will have room." His heart was slowing, settling and curiously at peace.

His realm stood upon the edge of darkness, and he had long grown used to the flickering madness of dragon-fire in his blood. He did not know if he and his folk could endure. But this small piece of his realm he would entrust to the hobbit. And in his care, in the lands of his people, it would thrive. And thus, even if the world ended, and the Greenwood burned in fire or drowned in darkness, this small legacy of his people would survive. Perhaps he would yet fail them in the end, as he had failed his warriors, as he had failed Tauriel and Legolas, but it would not be a complete failure.

He could not tell Bilbo this, that he had given him this last hope of his land. Instead, he only accepted the hobbit's nod of acknowledgment, then turned. "Come, we must return to camp. Night will fall soon."

"Right." Bilbo fell into step beside him, and they made their way back. His people looked at him with concern. The wizard and Beorn looked upon him with knowing eyes. He cared for none of it. He saw the hobbit safely to his fire, stopped briefly for a cup of tea, then returned to his tent and bid the guards to leave and take up more distant stations.

Alone in his tent, his stripped away his riding clothes, the silver crown that bound his brow, mark of his status when he walked abroad. And then, stripped of all reminders of his rank, he knelt and released the power of the illusion that covered his scarred and wounded body. Physical pain joined the mental and emotional that had been locked in the ice in his soul for all these days and now clawed at his heart, tightened his throat beyond the ability to swallow, talk or even scream.

Alone, he wept. For the wounded, for the dead, for the survivors that must bear the pain of both. For all that had been taken in the mountain's curse. He wept until he choked, until it was only force of will that kept him from falling forward into the dirt. Until the pain ran from him, like poison expunged from a wound, lanced by the memory of a small solitary figure cradling a seed amidst the greenwood.

He wept until finally his tears ran dry, his jaw unclenched, and peace descended over him, leaving him in a raw, aching exhaustion that was as much spiritual as physical. It was only then that he rose to his feet, used water to cool the aching of his eyes. He smoothed on some more salve, remembering with a dull pang the dwarven king who had given it to him. Then he pulled the illusions back to cover his body, and his sleeping robes, and fell into his bed.

He dreamed of light flickering in the Greenwood, of trees being tended by ghostly figures among which he followed a small, stocky figure in worn clothing. He woke the next morning better rested than he had been since the battle, and ignored his attendant's questions in favor of seeking the wizard's fire for a final farewell.

Later that day, he watched a small, slight figure on a pony ride off between a wizard on a tall horse, and a tall, rough-shaven man who walked beside them. He saw Bilbo glance back, once, and offer a small smile and a nod of farewell. Then he turned and led his own people into the wood, towards home.

The Greenwood would be a long time healing, and would forever carry the scars of what had happened. As would he. But he remembered his dream, and the words spoken by the stream, and felt a small vestige of hope. Perhaps, if elves could value...if he could value what Bilbo had...

By the time he rode into the gates of the palace, they had stopped once for a rest. And deep in his breast pocket, he had placed a single, shining seed.

With him he carried a symbol of hope, nestled close to his heart.

_**Author's Note:**__ Honestly, this was definitely a case of the story doing it's own thing. I had originally planned for Thranduil to be much more...detached about the whole thing. Grieving, but calmer. But I read the book again (in which the elven king is stern but somewhat more friendly) and had a chance to see the third movie again, and somewhere in there, this version of Thranduil came forth, and demanded to be heard. And so I did as I was told._


End file.
